


not so deep as a well

by gunsandbutter



Series: red right ankle [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, M/M, Marauders' Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-02
Updated: 2006-05-02
Packaged: 2017-10-25 19:29:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/273913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gunsandbutter/pseuds/gunsandbutter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>But you wanted to keep his secret safe, so you threw the key away.</i></p><p>The sun is shining as the Potters are buried.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not so deep as a well

The sun is shining as the Potters are buried.

It has been raining for days, a constant disheartening drizzle against the windowpanes. Even now, with a brilliant blue sky and the sun burning overhead, the ground squishes underfoot, leaking dirty rainwater onto everyone’s dress shoes. No one notices, except Remus, who is trying very hard not to pay attention as James’s parents are put in the ground.

He glances to his right, where Sirius sits still and silent—more frozen than Remus has ever seen him. His hands lie motionless on his thighs, slim and colorless against the dark fabric; Remus has the impression Sirius doesn’t know what to do with them.

Sirius has always been a boy of gestures, long limbs flailing with energy, pointing and waving and pinching to make his point. It is unsettling to see him so static, and Remus lays a hand over those long fingers and squeezes.

Sirius does not meet his gaze.

 _(“Is Sirius here? This—Remus, I—it’s urgent. He…”)_

Sirius has never told him about his parents. Remus can only guess at what they must have been like. He has scoured the scant evidence for clues—the occasional spell of moodiness, a flash of tense uncertainty in Regulus’s eyes, the far-fetched rumors of just what happened to land the Black heir in the lap of the wizarding world’s most infamous blood-traitors.

His theories are as good as the next. Sirius

 _(and James)_

will never tell.

Remus tries to imagine what it must be like: to have parents like Sirius must have had, and then to find the Potters. To finally—

—after so many years—

—to be loved and protected, to have a proper home and lazy Sunday brunches and someone hugging you when you got off the train—and then, just like that, for it all to be gone.

He holds on to Sirius’s hand just a little tighter, and thinks how unnaturally bright the sunshine is today.

To his left is Lily, hair gleaming gold and fire against a background of black. Strong, lovely Lily, with her tear-filled green eyes, her clenched teeth, her soft freckled hands wrapped tight around one of James’s.

James.

Remus can hardly imagine what is going through the other man’s head. He looks eerily composed, his eyes dry and unblinking behind glittering spectacles. His face is tight in a way Remus has never seen; his jaw is clenched so tightly, Remus half-expects it to break. A voice in his head sighs, _Things are so fucking fragile these days_ , and it sounds so much like Sirius that Remus’s gaze flickers to his lover’s face before turning back to James.

For as long as Remus has known him, James has been untouchable. From the moment they both stepped into the Great Hall, James was everything Remus was not—rich, athletic, recklessly brilliant. Navigating blind through a new world of snide older students and demented staircases, James Potter was without equal.

(Only he wasn’t—because from the very beginning, even before anyone realized there _was_ a beginning, there was Sirius. Sirius has always been the Mercutio to James’s Romeo in this strange story—snide and irrepressible, every bit as brash and careless and clever as James could ever hope to be. Remus cannot remember one without the other; they are hopelessly linked within his memories, the boy he loves and the boy he can’t help but follow.)

And now, James’s Utopia has come crashing down around him—around all of them. The king has suffered first blood; the battle has shifted.

Remus can’t help but feel betrayed.

Somewhere behind them, a woman is weeping. Her sobs are high and breathless; Remus imagines her grief choking the rays of insolent sunlight, sharp and tangible, curling higher and higher on a sharp spiral of anguish before plummeting in a desperate plunge to the ground—

And it is over. The Potters are dead; James is an orphan; and then.

The mourners surge unsteadily to their feet, glancing about awkwardly and filing slowly from the rows of seats. The low murmur of voices builds into a somber hum of consolation and distraction, as friends and family and Ministry colleagues comfort themselves with idle conversation.

The area before the graves is suddenly crowded, and for a moment, Remus loses sight of his friends. He thinks he sees Peter slip past, looking ill; Remus frowns and almost follows behind, but then he thinks of Sirius’s silent chaos, and he heads in the other direction. Peter will be all right.

Several Hogwarts professors are in attendance, including Dumbledore, who clasps Remus by the shoulder as he passes. “Thanks,” Remus whispers, and feels foolish. Dumbledore gives him a sad smile and turns back to his companion.

The next moment, Remus spots James, white and haggard—and Lily, too, of course. She presses close against James’s side, one arm tight around his waist, and Remus has never been so grateful that Lily is Lily.

It takes him a moment to realize that Sirius is there too, silent and fading back into the throng. The three aren’t interacting; they might as well be kilometers apart. James doesn’t look at Sirius, and Sirius doesn’t look at James, and Remus understands now that something is dreadfully wrong.

And, of course, this is a time of mourning. The Potters—the famous, the great, the beloved—are dead, and the wizarding world has been sent reeling. A boy has lost his parents. The war is building, and the future darkens with each passing day.

But there is something more here, something more terrible and tragic than Remus has ever seen. It hovers around the hard set of James’s jaw, the lifeless drape of Sirius’s hands, and Remus shudders under the bright sunlight.

The tension is becoming unbearable. Remus is about to say something, when James surprises all of them by taking a sudden step forward. “Hey,” he says. His voice is rough and reproachful, as if Sirius has somehow been ignoring him.

Sirius’s head snaps up. He takes a step back in surprise, hesitates. He steps forward again. “Hey.” They eye each other for a moment more, before finally Sirius says, “You all right, then?”

“Yeah,” James says. “Smashing.”

“Yeah.”

 _Great pillocks, the both of you_ , Remus thinks, but before he can say it aloud, James is moving—not with the powerful agility of a Chaser, but with the lurching, erratic gait of snap decisions.

Lily’s arm drops from James’s waist, and James pulls Sirius toward him almost violently, hands clutching bone-white and desperate against Sirius’s back. Remus sees Sirius waver for a moment, stunned and rigid in James’s arms—

—and then he reaches up to press their bodies closer, and they melt together, a jumble of black hair and exhaustion.

 _We two boys together clinging…_

Most everyone is polite or compassionate enough to pretend they aren’t staring, but Remus can’t help himself. The two of them look so _right_ , so inseparable; for a moment, Remus forgets what they look like apart. Surely, then, he was mistaken. Surely there is nothing broken that this bond of brothers cannot mend.

Surely everything will turn out all right, in the end.

Years pass before finally James pulls away, blowing out a harsh breath and locking his eyes to Sirius’s. “Right,” he says, and nods. His fingers tighten on Sirius’s shoulder, and then release. “Take care, then.”

He steps back, still meeting Sirius’s gaze—and then he turns, grasping for Lily’s hand and pulling her away past surprised onlookers. The crowds part for him as they have always parted, and a minute later, they are gone.

Sirius stands very still for a long moment, staring blankly into the space where James disappeared. His arms have fallen to hang uselessly at his sides, and he seems to sag where he stands, limp and exposed. He looks like a skeleton, a shell of himself, and fear clenches hard in Remus’s stomach.

Remus steps forward. Muddy water seeps out from the ground beneath his foot. “Padfoot?”

The skeleton turns, and suddenly Sirius is there, pale and elegant. “Moony.” His face stretches too tight around his weak smile, twisted into a grotesque caricature of pleasure, and Remus thinks he finally knows what ugliness looks like on Sirius Black.

Remus steps up to him, lays a hand on his shoulder. He starts to speak, then stops.

He wants to speak, to set things right, but he knows there is nothing he can say. He already knows that, when he does speak, he will say something pointless. Sirius will reply in kind, and neither of them will say what they ought to, and then they will go back to Sirius’s flat.

Remus knows what will happen, then. He knows Sirius. It seems to be all he does these days, knowing Sirius, if only enough to understand that he doesn’t really know him at all.

He knows this much:

Sirius will begin stripping the minute they walk in the door. He will shed layers like dead skins, discarding dark robes and trousers until finally he strides naked into the bedroom, brazen and radiant.

(It will make Remus hard, though he will try to ignore it. He can’t control it. That body does things to him—Sirius does things. Makes him _want_ in a way he can’t explain, carnal and frantic, way down deep where his breath dies and his blood begins its steady crescendo in time with the swell of the moon.)

He will pull on an old pair of jeans, denim rasping over bare skin and sending jolts of electricity to Remus’s fingers. Remus will sit patiently at the kitchen table, and Sirius will prowl the flat shirtless and barefoot, smoking relentlessly and rejecting any offer of food, tea, comfort.

And Remus will wait. He will wait and wait and wait for Sirius to cry, to scream, to lash out and cave in and allow Remus to love him.

He knows he will be waiting for a long time, perhaps forever. Sirius has always been difficult beyond comprehension. Sirius will never shatter into more manageable pieces. Sirius is exasperating and complicated and more transparent than he thinks, and Remus loves him hopelessly for lack of alternatives.

Back in the present, before forever has quite started, Sirius is still waiting for Remus to speak. They have been standing there for several long, silent minutes, and so Remus smiles and takes Sirius’s hand and says something pointless.

Remus often tries to remember life Before Sirius. How did he sleep—eat—breathe? Why did he live?

Before Sirius, Remus loved:

Books.  
Lukewarm tea.  
His mother.

And After Sirius?

He hasn’t quite got to that point. Not just yet.

His breath still catches at the soft graze of the other man’s lips, the notquitepainful grip of his long fingers, the blurry glow of his eyes in the morning. Sirius is still the most beautiful man he has ever seen—and the brightest, the most fascinating, the kindest and most vicious. The most wanted.

And he knows

 _(they both know)_

that there is something growing in the space between them—in the cool, desolate expanse crowded with all the words they’ve never said. It is a little wary and a little desperate and it could be that they are too far gone, and Remus tells himself that one day soon he will have to remember how to breathe on his own.

Sirius squeezes his hand, drawing him back to the present, and brushes a gentle kiss against his cheek. “Let’s go, then,” he says, low and compelling.

Soon. But not just yet.


End file.
